Page 46 of The Roommate Subtext

“I think if someone gives you a houseplant, it means they trust you.” Blake shifted on the couch to look at her more directly. “Maybe don’t think too deeply about the fact that no one’s ever given you one.”

“Hey!” She was insulted, but she had to laugh. “I resent that.”

“I think you’re at least capable of taking care of a spider plant.” Blake patted her on the hand, and it was condescending but in an amusing way.

“Thanks.” She rolled her eyes. “I think I should leave all the horticultural work to you.”

“It is my passion.” He returned the binder to the bottom shelf. “But if you ever want to name my plants, let me know. I’m happy to defer to your judgment.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

He checked the clock. “I should probably get to bed. I lost track of time.”

“I get it. All those plants, all that excitement.”

He flipped her off with a smile. It was such an unexpected gesture from him, the guy who never even swore, that Maggie laughed out loud. “Wow, OK. Have a good night, Weird Plant Man.”

“Have a good night, Maggie.” Blake winked, and that wink made her feel tingly.

Maggie finished her water in one long gulp. She’d been having these weird feelings about Blake a lot, lately. If he was open to it, she’d definitely fuck him to get it out of her system. A thoughtful, considerate guy like Blake probably gave great head.

God, she wanted to get laid. She pulled out her phone and texted the Pimpernel, hoping he’d be up and available to talk, or hopefully to play. How’s your weekend going?

He replied a minute or two later. Low key, the way I like it. Nice to hear from you tonight, Rose. I’ve been thinking about you.

Her heart flip-flopped. I’m glad you’re still awake.

I like staying up on the weekends.

I’ve been thinking about you, too, she wrote. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately and could use a distraction.

Am I a distraction? he replied.

I don’t know what you are, she wrote back, and the words rang true. She wasn’t any closer to writing this article for Chauvel than she’d been a week ago, and sooner or later, Chauvel was going to figure that out. I don’t know you that well.

That’s because we agreed on no personal conversations.

They’d avoided sharing any identifying information, just like she’d wanted. But they still talked almost every night, and those conversations felt … well, personal. Their exchanges had an undercurrent of intimacy even when they weren’t sexting.

But now, she wanted a different kind of intimacy. She wanted to stop thinking, and she wanted to come. I want the sexy kind of distraction, she wrote.

Got it, he replied. Given any more thought to playing with pain?

I’m curious, she wrote. I’m willing to try some things.

I love when you’re willing to try some things, he said. Then, Want to fool around?

Absolutely.

You should get naked for me, he said, then we can talk further.

He wrote like such an English teacher. “Talk further,” like this was the beginning of some literary discourse and not only some hot sexting. Maybe he was an English teacher. She was supposed to be writing an exposé about him, and she didn’t know anything more than she had at the beginning.

She was going to have to bullshit her way through this article, and at this moment, she did not care. She stripped off her clothes and messaged him back.

I’m ready.

Good. Do you have a ruler?